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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29025852">garden song</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/akhikosanada/pseuds/akhikosanada'>akhikosanada</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domestic Fluff, F/M, Post-Canon, also to jeritza's death, based on their AM ending where they build a school for Duscur children, non-graphic references to war</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:34:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,321</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29025852</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/akhikosanada/pseuds/akhikosanada</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"He’d brought her to a sunflower field, the one that grew near his village; there was nothing left after the war, he’d told her, only torn-off petals and trampled, upturned earth, watered with the blood of his people.<br/>“I think they’re a little like us,” Mercedes had said then, as she looked at the infinite expanse of golden flower fields swaying in the wind.<br/>“What do you mean?”<br/><em>Uprooted and regrown</em>, she’d thought. “Impertinently alive.”"</p><p>Mercedes, and Dedue, and a garden.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mercedes von Martritz/Dedue Molinaro</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>garden song</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I always wanted to write more Mercedes because she is my Wife. Here is some mercedue post-war fluff.<br/>I hope you like it! </p><p>Title is from Phoebe Bridgers' Garden Song, because the lyrics are v accurate but i couldnt make any of them sound good on their own as a title</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They plant the garden first.</p><p>It comes before the linen sheets and the feather pillows, before the thatch on the roof and the curtains on the windows, before the playground, before the greenhouse. It comes before the tiny desks and the tinier chairs, before the blackboard and the pot of chalk, before the children, before the teachers.</p><p>Mercedes sinks her hand in soil, makes it fall between her fingers like time. It’s fresh and humid, cool against her skin under the noontime sun, smells like the forest that used to surround the church of her youth. She thinks about burying her nose there for a second or two, looks around to make sure Dedue won’t witness that small indulgence; it’s a bad habit she has, he’d certainly say — putting her nose where it doesn’t belong, especially in the affairs of others. <em>We wouldn’t be married if I didn’t</em>, she answers to the shadow she imagines there, standing tall in a crowning of light, shielding and blinding all at once. Still, she lets the rest of the earth fall back into a little pile. It doesn’t smell like blood, for once. This is no battlefield. This is no burial. </p><p>There’s dirt under her nails as she digs a small hole, grabs the root of the lettuce Dedue and her cut into a salad for dinner the night before. She gently pushes it down, covering it with soil. The clerics had taught her this when she’d been but a child: to always bury the roots that they’d cut off the luncheon vegetables. <em>Life and death</em>, they kept saying, <em>for everything that dies can be born again, when your hands find guidance in the Goddess</em>. She hadn’t believed it, at first, not until she’d witnessed the scraps of onions she’d messily planted bloom into sprigs again, not until she’d torn off her very own harvest from the bed of the earth. <em>For everything that dies can be born again</em>, she’d thought again, a few months ago, as her hands covered Emile’s body with dirt, as Dedue handed her flowers — not to be left there, but to be planted. </p><p>“Mercedes.”</p><p>His deep voice startles her now, as it did then; she finds love in his gaze as he stares at her from beneath a straw hat, as well as a hint of concern. The small paper bags he holds are fluttering into the wind, along the silver hair he’s let down for the day. Ah, she was spacing out again, wasn’t she? She lets her smile take the shape of soft reassurance, of peace and harmony, practiced into authenticity. It’s always been easier, smiling to Dedue, mostly because it’s nigh impossible to fool him with pretenses. </p><p>“Would you hand me some of the seeds? The children won’t have much to look at when the school opens if you remain standing here.”</p><p>The ghost of a pout lingers as he kneels besides her. Her laughter, too, gets lost to the wind. </p><p>Dedue’s hands are rough and rugged, his fingers calloused from shield and axe, no matter how many times he tries to smooth them out on Mercedes’ skin. Still, he pours the seeds in his palm like the most precious of treasures, as though he’s safeguarding the crown jewels of his land. <em>He might as well be</em>, Mercedes thinks; they’d already sown the seeds Sylvain had brought back from his diplomacy travels in Sreng, Almyra, Dadga; had already uprooted and repotted the different aromatics growing in the Monastery greenhouse that Byleth had given them as a wedding gift — it had been a little strange, at the time, and Mercedes had taken the pots with all the grace and delicacy she could muster through the haze of her ten Noa-fruit wine glasses — Felix had had to wash dirt off his hair for a fortnight, Sylvain had later told her between two fits of laughter — in any case, only the Duscur plants remained to be sown, now. </p><p>They’d harvested them themselves when they’d travelled after the war. Dedue had shown her how to spread open the hearts of flowers without endangering the plants, how to pick the seeds off the wild fruits they ate on the road, how to properly wash them and dry them in the sun so they would grow back bigger and stronger. He’d taught her the Duscur names of herbs that grow in Fódlan, and how to speak the names of those that don’t, until they rolled off her tongue with the ease of a well-rehearsed prayer. He’d made her taste them in every dish they found time to cook together when they returned, the pies and the soups and the stews. He’d braided flowers in her hair and taught her their symbols, beauty and gentleness and compassion and thank-you and she’d kissed the meanings into him. </p><p>“The sunflowers, first,” he says, and Mercedes takes a couple of seeds from his palm, pushes them into the earth with a finger. He’d brought her to a sunflower field, the one that grew near his village; there was nothing left after the war, he’d told her, only torn-off petals and trampled, upturned earth, watered with the blood of his people. </p><p>“I think they’re a little like us,” Mercedes had said then, as she looked at the infinite expanse of golden flower fields swaying in the wind.</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p><em>Uprooted and regrown</em>, she’d thought. “Impertinently alive,” she’d answered instead, and when she looked back at him Dedue’s smile rivaled the sun.</p><p>They plant the rest of the Duscur flowers, and herbs, and vegetables. Mercedes does her best to distract her husband by blowing dirt in his face and Dedue does his best not to look anywhere near bothered by it, kisses her brow before pushing his hat over her head and his hand into her own. They switch roles as the sun sinks into the horizon, past the fence around their future school for Duscur refugee kids and their adjoining home — Dedue sows the seeds and Mercedes waters them, letting the watercan drizzle like mist over the soil. </p><p>In a few months, there will be linen sheets and feather pillows, thatch on the roof and curtains on the windows, and a playground, and a greenhouse. There will be tiny desks and tinier chairs, a blackboard and a pot of chalk, and friends-turned-teachers, and children’s laughter.</p><p>In a few months, there will be her mother’s recipe as she bakes pastries for her pupils after her classes end. There will be Annette’s monthly music class, and Ingrid’s lance lessons, and Felix’s sword training, and Ashe’s voice reading the littlest ones to sleep in the afternoon. There will be the foundation for another building, not far from here, where one day every parentless child will be welcomed, no matter their origin or background. </p><p>In a few months, there will be uprooted, regrown Duscur history, in the garden of the house near their school in Fhirdiad, impertinently alive. </p><p>Today, surely, there are flowers growing from her brother’s grave on an lonely Adrestian hill.</p><p>“Do you remember what we planted?”</p><p>Mercedes doesn’t even pretend to think about it. “No.”</p><p>“Do you want to write down the names later?”</p><p><em>Oh. The garden</em>. “Maybe tomorrow? Annie arrives in the morning, we can teach her as well.” She lets her head fall onto Dedue’s shoulder, and his arm comes around her waist, eases her into his embrace. She fails to remember a time when she’s felt so <em>safe</em>, so at peace with herself and the world around her. </p><p>Now the scent of earth isn’t synonymous with running away, with scrapes on her knees and gashes on her feet as she and her mother flee House Bartels, with pricked fingers joined in worship in a lonely church lost in the forest. Now, earth smells like home, and peace, and life.</p><p><em>This is no battlefield</em>, she thinks again, like a prayer. <em>This is no burial</em>. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading! &lt;3 Please leave a comment if you liked it :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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